


Playing House

by ifinkufreaky



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, BDSM, Dom/sub, Domestic Kink, F/M, Multi, Sex Toys, Spanking, french maid outfit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-07-08 18:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19873849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifinkufreaky/pseuds/ifinkufreaky
Summary: In which Ivar and Ubbe come up with an interesting arrangement in exchange for free rent.





	1. deal

“You guys are such fucking pigs,” the tall girl from your English Lit class says as she steps over a crumpled towel on the floor of the grimy apartment hallway. “I can’t believe I actually used that toilet.”

Ubbe puts a fresh beer bottle into her hand. “It’s not that bad.”

“It is!”

Everyone looks around the apartment shared by Ubbe and Ivar Lothbrok, your hosts for this evening’s little get-together. Books, games, and random papers litter the living room, dirty dishes are overflowing out of the kitchen sink, and the wood floor is covered with wandering dust bunnies. Sitting on said floor because there was no more room on the couch, you’re glad that you are wearing dark jeans, so that any dirt your butt might pick up down here won’t show.

English Lit girl isn’t finished. Someone told you her name at the beginning of the party, but you’ve forgotten it. “Have you guys even mopped this floor once since you moved in?”

Ivar waves his hand dismissively above your head. He’s seated at the end of the couch you’re leaning against. “You only do that if you want your security deposit back.”

You wish he could see that you smiled at his little joke. You chose to sit in that particular place because you like to be close to him, you and your desperate little crush, the one you would never let an intimidating guy like Ivar Lothbrok know about directly. It gives you a simple kind of pleasure to sit at his feet and nurse your private fantasies about him, as he carries on being cooler than you just above your head.

The image on the TV shifts to a close-up of Thanos’ gauntlet. “Infinity Stones, drink!” you shout. Everyone in the room dutifully tips their beer or cocktail to their lips and takes a good, long, pull.

As messy as the Lothbroks’ apartment is, they always end up hosting these parties. Maybe because of this nice, giant flatscreen their rich parents set them up with. Your little social group loves to turn movies into drinking games on Friday nights, and this always seems like the best place to do it.

“Seriously, though,” English Lit girl continues, “you guys need a maid.”

“Mother said no,” Ivar says. Softly, like he hopes not everyone will hear the bratty comment.

Ubbe covers him with a louder reply of his own. “Budget’s too tight. We spend all our extra cash on beers for you people.” He taps the girl’s bottle with his own and grins.

Oh, that grin. Sparkling and intimate, flirting with anything that moves. If Ubbe Lothbrok wasn’t a senior, you’d admit to the way he made your whole body tingle, too.

“Thanos! Chug!” another one of your friends calls.

Everyone’s cups and bottles go end up.

“Sigurd kept it clean when he lived here.” English Lit remarks.

Ivar scowls down the neck of his bottle. “Yeah, it was a real tragedy when he transferred to that music school.”

“You guys ever think about getting another roommate?”

Ubbe shrugs. “Mom and Dad pay the rent, we don’t really need to.”

 _Must be nice,_ you think to yourself. You worried about making enough to cover rent just about every month.

Over your shoulder, you notice Ivar shaking his bottle like it’s empty. You make a small noise to get his attention. “I’m going to the kitchen, want me to get you another one?” Even making such a simple, normal offer has your heart pounding as you look up from the floor at him.

His brilliant eyes focus on your face, and it’s an effort not to flush just from that. He’s holding the bottle at the neck, pinched between the tips of his perfect, blunt fingers, and he wordlessly tilts the bottom toward you and nods.

You accept his empty, clutching your own in your other fist, and rise to your feet as gracefully as you can. If you were another girl you might have said something sassy, but it feels like the fulfillment of some kind of strange fantasy just to serve him quietly like this.

You don’t see the way Ivar’s eyes follow your ass as you cross the room.

“You need a new Sigurd,” English Lit girl says, not giving this up.

“We do not need a new Sigurd,” Ivar says acidly. “We just need someone living here who likes things to be clean.”

She makes a scoffing sound, looking around the place one more time. “You are never going to attract a roommate like that, with the place in this condition. They’ll take one look at this pigsty and run.”

“Not if they can stay here for free,” Ivar grins back. “What did they call them in Viking History, Ubbe, thralls?”

Ubbe grunts a confirmation sound, mid-swallow.

“That’s what we need. Someone that lives here, and does all the chores for us.” You’ve made it to the attached kitchen, catching a glimpse of Ivar folding his hands behind his head as he lays out his ridiculous plan. You duck behind the refrigerator door but keep listening. “Someone… pretty. We’ll pay for everything, she’ll cook and keep house, and at night…”

You really wish you could see his face as he trails off to the sound of outraged noises from English Lit girl. “You realize a thrall is a slave, right?”

“I like this idea,” Ubbe’s deeper voice rumbles over her. “Not the slave part—” you snatch two fresh beers from the fridge and come back to the cutout between the rooms as quick as you can, before you miss anything else “—but housekeeping in exchange for free rent? I could get behind that. She can stay in Sigurd’s room.”

“If she wants to sleep there,” Ivar grins to his brother. “I was thinking we’d want someone willing to be a good cock-warmer, too.”

Heat rushes through your body even as everyone groans at the way his comment has gone too far. English Lit girl throws a pillow in Ivar’s direction. “Pig!”

“Drink!” Ubbe roars right behind her, as the Infinity Stones flash on the TV screen again.

Ivar looks to you, his hands empty. You rush to him as quick as you can with the cold drinks.

Alas, you’ve forgotten the bottle opener, and these are not twist-offs. Ivar makes a chiding sound between his teeth, but before you can get up off your knees again he whips a knife from his pocket and flips the blade open with a little _snick_ sound. He uses the back side to pop his lid off with a deft little motion you’re certain you would never be able to repeat.

“Jokes aside,” Ubbe resumes, “it’s not a bad idea.” Ivar takes a gulp of his beer with the hand still holding his knife in the other fingers, while reaching his empty hand out for your own sealed bottle.

“It’s demeaning!” English Lit girl insists.

Ivar’s fingers brush over yours in the handoff. “Only if you want to look at it that way.” He winks at you, so fast you wonder if you imagined it.

The world stutters.

“I’d do it.”

You say it without thinking. In fact, you only meant to think it. Ivar’s hand jumps, and he doesn’t get this bottle cap off as easily as the last one.

English Lit girl swivels toward you, blinking. “What?”

You giggle self-consciously as Ubbe’s ice-blue eyes fall on you, too. He looks interested. “I said, I’ll do it.” You refuse to be shamed by this judgy bitch. Though your eyes fall to the floor, and you don’t have the courage to lift them as you keep talking. “I only work at that restaurant to make enough money to pay rent, and I fucking hate that job. And my shitty apartment. Which I’m month-to-month on.” You’re working it through as you speak. “My scholarship pays for everything else important. If I could quit that job and just hang out with you guys all day—” you grab the opened bottle that Ivar hands you and take a swig “—that sounds totally worth cleaning your shit and cooking your food.”

You leave Ivar’s last idea un-commented upon.

* * *

You wake up on the couch to a room warm and bright with early sunlight. It’s a little uncomfortable, but the moment you remember you’re still at Ubbe and Ivar’s you feel a bubble of cozy pleasure. You had decided you were too drunk to make the trek to your own apartment last night, as you had after many Friday parties before. The couch was open to any of their friends that wanted to crash.

Usually, you slipped out before either of the Lothbroks awoke from their darker rooms and more comfortable beds. But today was special. The conversation from last night had been left unresolved, though everyone seemed amicable to the idea. Smarter to leave the real commitment for sober minds to make.

You rummage through the Lothbroks’ kitchen until you can find the filters and beans to make coffee. This morning, you don’t want to leave quick. The idea of living like a servant here, cleaning up after these two, catering to them… it may be strange, but to you it sounded just as appealing to your sober self as it had to the tipsy girl fawning over Ivar last night. And the slow looks Ubbe had been shooting you after that conversation… You had definitely gotten the idea that the sex slave part of the fantasy was as much on his mind as it had been on yours.

But even if that part was only a joke… just getting to be close to your crushes, to have all your efforts going toward pleasing them rather than to the nameless churn of rude, impatient customers at the restaurant, honestly, why wouldn’t you go for it?

Worried that they’d change their minds in the morning, you decide to treat today as a sort of audition. You’re already here, anyway. Even if they wake up feeling silly for suggesting it, they could stumble their hung-over asses out to a sample of the dream they could be living. Then they’d be less likely to take the offer back. No one could think that you didn’t really mean to follow through.

Armed with fresh coffee, you set your first efforts to the state of the kitchen, zeroing in on the dishes “soaking” in the sink. The stack of filthy plates and encrusted pots and pans reaches as high as the spout of the faucet. You hope that the clinking as you rearrange, scrub, and scrape won’t wake the boys up before they have something to really see. You drop that concern when no lumbering masses of hungover man-meat emerge blinking into the light in the first five minutes, and then you really get to work.

You can’t find a mop. After you’ve swept out the grimy kitchen while the dishes dry in the sink, you start getting the encrusted dirt off the floor the old-fashioned way: on your hands and knees. Intent on the stubborn mess stuck to the floorboards in front of the sink, you don’t notice Ubbe entering the kitchen.

He sure notices you, though. When the clink of the coffeepot against a mug alerts you to his presence, you flip your head over your shoulder and catch him staring at your upturned ass.

“Morning, Y/N,” he greets you, voice still thick with sleep coming out as a low rumble. Another man might have been embarrassed to be caught looking, but Ubbe’s eyes keep roaming, in a pleased, confident sort of way. It’s less offensive than it should have been; he looks at you like there is no reason why he shouldn’t, like you are already his and he’s just admiring, like a piece of art he just brought home. He gestures toward the rag in your hand. “You were serious.”

“Uh, yeah.” Your usual social awkwardness makes your eyes drop to the floor, and as soon as your attention falls back on a stubborn mark you start rubbing at it again. “I’m not afraid of hard work.”

Ubbe makes a distinctly masculine sound in the back of his throat, above you. “Is that so.”

There’s a pause as you keep scrubbing, trying to think of something cool to say. You can’t say you know Ubbe very well; Ivar’s friends are the ones that invited you to these parties and Ubbe’s just kind of always here.

“Hey, where’s the sugar?” Ubbe asks. You glance up to see him searching the empty, sparkling-clean counter to the left and right of the coffeemaker with a dumbfounded sort of look on his face.

“Oh, did you like to keep it out?” A spark of anxiety propels you up from the floor. “When I cleared off the counter I guessed that its home was in this cabinet up here.” You rush toward the door in question, even though it’s right in front of Ubbe’s face. You hate to feel like you did something wrong.

Ubbe only rocks back a little as you come flying in. You swing the cabinet door open to show him the sack of sugar right next to the flour and salt, the random assortment of spices someone had stored up here. Your rush threw you a little off-balance, and right into Ubbe’s personal space. His hands settle on your hips to steady you. “That’s fine, Y/N,” he says. There’s a hint of that tone that one uses to soothe dogs, or agitated children.

You giggle self-consciously, finally realizing how close your bodies are, how silly he must think you’re being to get so worked up over this. “I just wanted it to look really nice before you guys woke up.”

“And it does,” Ubbe agrees, the pleased tone in his voice like a ribbon of velvet against your skin. His hands stay where they are, and he gives the top of your hip a little tap with his fingertips. “The kitchen feels twice as big without the clutter. Leave it up there. I can find the sugar in the cabinet from now on.”

His smile dazzles you, from up so close. It takes you an extra moment for his meaning to sink in. “So, you were serious about the offer?”

And just then, Ivar swings around the corner on his forearm crutches. He takes in the closeness of your body to his brother’s, and you suddenly wish Ubbe’s hands weren’t still on your hips. The older Lothbrok doesn’t flinch, but you find yourself pulling away from him modestly as Ivar looks around the sparkling kitchen.

“This is good, Y/N,” he croons, the praise bringing a pleasant heat to your cheeks. He catches your eyes with mischief in his brilliant blues. “Now fix us a good breakfast and we’ll talk about how soon you can move in.”

* * *

You had always managed to survive your crush on Ivar by avoiding his full attention; mostly you had counted yourself pretty content to worship him only from afar. Now, such tactics have become impossible. You seem to be the main focus of Ivar’s day as you start to unpack your belongings into Sigurd’s old room. Not that Ivar is being particularly helpful to you on moving day. No, he seems interested only in getting in your way, talking your ear off, and judging your possessions.

His eyes gleam when you pull a tattered puff of white out of a box, absentmindedly petting it once before tossing it past him, so it lands between the pillows at the head of the bed.

“You still sleep with a stuffed animal?” Ivar accuses.

Your cheeks tingle as you contemplate the fuzzy cat you’ve had since childhood. “Only because it fits under my arm just right when I sleep on my stomach. Mr. Wiggles is basically just another pillow.”

Ivar’s brow arches. “Mr. Wiggles.”

Your face gets hotter. You nod and look away, hoping he just drops it.

Instead, Ivar leans over and snatches the toy up. “Not a name I’d expect for a cuddle buddy. I’d want someone to stay _still_ when I’m trying to sleep.” He reclines on his side on your bed, curling his arms around Mr. Wiggles and staring up at you from under his thick lashes.

Images flood your mind, unbidden, of taking Mr. Wiggles’ place, of being the soft and still thing that soothes Ivar to sleep. You turn away, heat flooding your body as you look to the next box that needs unpacking. Though you feel an immediate pang of regret that you didn’t enjoy the sight of Ivar Lothbrok lying so seductively on your bed for a little longer.

A few silent moments go by. Then Ivar hops up. “I almost forgot. I got you a moving-in present.” He swipes up his crutches and heads swiftly out the door.

Ubbe’s head pops in just after Ivar vanishes. Your new room shares its north wall with Ivar’s and its south with Ubbe’s. “Everything in its right place?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you.” Ubbe had been extremely helpful with your furniture and the bigger boxes, and then had promptly disappeared as soon as the heavy lifting was done.

He steps inside, leaning against a wall with casually crossed arms as he looks around your half-decorated space. “Looks so different already.”

“I’m surprised that this was Sigurd’s room,” you say, struggling to think of conversation. “I thought him and Ivar couldn’t stand each other, how did they do with sharing a wall?”

“They didn’t,” Ubbe replies. “I had to take this one while he was here.” A boyish grin pulls at his cheek. “Ivar hated to hear him practice his guitar, and Sigurd couldn’t take the noises when Ivar brought someone home…” Ubbe shrugs. “I had to be the buffer. To me all those sounds are just different kinds of entertainment. When Sigurd left I moved my shit to the bigger room.” His thumb jerks back in the direction of the one he occupies now.

You nod absently as you absorb all of that. Ivar appears again in your doorway, with something silky in black and white slung over his shoulder. He plops down on your bed before holding it up to show you what it is.

“A nice uniform to go with the new job.”

Slung between his hands is a classic “French maid” dress, complete with puffed sleeves, white lace detailing at the short hem and low neckline, and a little apron hanging off the white, high-waisted belt. It’s not as tiny as some you’ve seen, but… it’s definitely fit for a porn film.

Ubbe chortles behind you. “Ivar!”

The dark-haired Lothbrok just grins. “You like it? That costume shop had it out in the window, and I thought it would be just perfect for our Y/N.”

Your head is spinning, so you just keep staring at the dress. It doesn’t look cheap, and it might even be your size.

“Ivar.” Ubbe steps forward, shaking his head. “Bad joke. We don’t want to make Y/N uncomfortable here.”

“She doesn’t look uncomfortable.”

How you hate conflict. You feel propelled to cut the tension by reaching out and taking the dress from Ivar’s hands. “This is a really pretty one,” you say, gratitude in your voice as you turn it to examine the full white bow blooming from the back of the apron, two tails of wide ribbon spilling from it that look like they’ll frame your ass in the most interesting way. The black fabric of the dress feels rich and silky between your fingers.

Ubbe gets your attention with a hand on your upper arm. “Please don’t think we’re going to be creeps about this.” You can see in his eyes that he’s concerned you were only being polite, and is searching you now for signs of true discomfort. “Room and board in exchange for cleaning, and cooking, but otherwise you’re just a normal roommate, ok? I don’t want you to feel weird, or like you owe us anything else. This is your home too, now. We’re not going to disrespect you.” He turns to his brother again. “Right, Ivar?”

The dark-haired brother nods his head, looking straight at you. “Of course.” He says your name firmly, deliberately. As its own sentence. And then: “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Somehow he makes it sound like there are all kinds of “anythings” possible for you here.


	2. awkward steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for anxious / negative self-talk, unnegotiated kink scenes.

You had thought the bathroom would be the most awkward part of this arrangement, but after the first deep-clean, that job isn’t really all that bad. It turns out that for you, laundry duty carries the most emotional impact. Sorting through Ivar and Ubbe’s used clothes brings an array of tantalizing scents wafting to your nose; they each favor a different cologne, and the occasional undershirt carries a deeper musk that hits you on an entirely primal level. Ubbe’s is spicy and distracting, making your head spin just a little as you imagine being tucked under his arm. Ivar’s is sweeter, hypnotizing, and the one time that you privately brought his shirt to your nose for a full-on huff, you felt like you had been drugged.

And after the clothes are clean, the folding, pressing, and hanging feels like an intimate, worshipful little ritual all of its own. You like to do it when they’re not home, and you can be alone with your little domestic fantasy. It feels like much more of an invasion to be opening drawers and going into their closets to put things away while they’re around, anyway.

Plus, the first time you brought a fresh, fluffy laundry basket back up to the apartment, so you could fold it in front of the TV, Ivar had watched you like a hawk. He just could not stop giving you increasingly-specific instructions. It warmed your chest and set your teeth rattling in equal measure.

“Long-ways, then in thirds.”

While you get a submissive little thrill every time he tells you what to do, at this point his barrage of critique starts to make your throat thicken with the familiar anxiety about not being able to please.

“Crisper, Y/N. Smooth it out with your hand before you make the fold.”

Ubbe growls a warning sound from his end of the couch. He seems to need to remind Ivar at least once a day to go easier on you.

You hear Ivar catch his breath, holding something back. When he speaks again, his tone is softer. “I just really like the way Marie Kondo does it.”

Your eyes widen as you whip your head and look up at the boys sprawled across the couch. “Wait. You guys can’t be bothered to lift a finger to take care of anything, and you watch a _cleaning show_?!”

“I like a tidy house,” Ivar sniffs, unapologetic in his sheer hypocrisy. “And I like the way she organizes.”

Something tugs at your memory. You’ve seen some of her videos before. “Isn’t she the one who says you need to like, convey your affection for the clothes while you smooth them out with your hands?” Your neck starts to tingle as you connect this thought with the associations that the boys’ laundry had already started to have in your mind.

Ivar’s eyes sparkle as he holds your gaze, as if he can tell exactly what you’re thinking. “Yes. And I want to see you doing just that. With every piece.”

Ubbe groans.

You smile a little at how protective he tries to be, even if he’s missing the point. “It’s all right, Ubbe,” you say primly. “They’re Ivar’s clothes, I’ll do them however he wants.”

“Well, you don’t have to be that obsessive with mine. Just having them clean in the basket is good enough for me.”

You shake your head. “I wouldn’t leave them to get wrinkled like that.”

You finished folding Ivar’s clothes in silence that night, your nerve endings sparkling like you were doing something sexual in front of him the entire time. You kept the movements of your hands slow, graceful, and you took your time spreading each piece of fabric, knowing he knew you were imagining his chest under every shirt, wondering about the usual occupant of each pair of boxers… While it was an experience you often find yourself replaying in your mind now, you still have never quite overcome embarrassment enough to do it in front of him again.

* * *

Ubbe liked to paint himself as easier to live with than Ivar, but as everyone got more comfortable together in the apartment, that was not necessarily the truth. While Ivar used your services to kickstart himself into reorganizing all of his possessions, and then actually started to pick up after himself whenever he thought you weren’t looking, Ubbe was much more prone to leave everything lying around all over the place. Towels migrated out of both kitchen and bathroom, and were left crumpled wherever he was standing once his hands were dry. He wouldn’t always ask you to cook for him like Ivar would, but he’d leave the kitchen covered in spills and dirty dishes after whipping up whatever snack he’d just been craving.

Your freshest example of this aggravation comes unexpectedly as you’re reading on the couch, alone. Ubbe busts through the front door, hair plastered to his scalp from the sweat that darkens the top half of his sleeveless shirt. His gym bag drops. He acknowledges you with a quick nod before starting to strip right there, exposing shiny washboard abs and glistening curls of hair in the center of his chest.

The shirt, of course, lands right in the middle of the living room. He kicks his sneakers vaguely in the direction of the shoe rack and flings white socks almost as far as the kitchen in his haste to get them off. You hold your breath, knowing his shorts have to be coming off next. He’s already moving past you though, gunning for the shower, and you only feel a _little_ guilty about turning your head to watch the big muscles of his back ripple as he drops his shorts right there in the hallway.

The sight he revealed, boxer briefs clinging to his sculpted ass, is going to stay with you for a while. One thumb hooks into his waistband, but he rounds the corner into the bathroom before you can see anything more than a sharply-contrasted tan line at the top of his hip.

You finish reading your chapter before you stand and start scooping up the trail of damp clothes Ubbe has left along the floor. You hear the shower stop after you dump them in the hamper just around the corner in his bedroom. You’re retreating to your own room when you hear Ubbe call out.

“Hey, Y/N, can you find me a towel?”

“Shit!” you exclaim. “I forgot I hadn’t put those back yet!”

“No worries,” you hear him say as you zoom toward the basket of unfolded towels you left behind the couch.

You grab one and push through the bathroom door with it. “I really should have—” the self-flagellating response dies on your lips at the sight that greets you. You had expected Ubbe to wait for you behind the shower curtain, but he’s standing right there in the open, dripping onto the tile floor without anything to cover him at all.

Rivulets of water are darkening the hair on his lower half, making it cling to the golden skin of his thighs and the paler areas usually hidden from the sun… You just kind of freeze. Ubbe takes the towel from your hands with a throaty chuckle, and uses it not to cover his body, but only his head, scrubbing first at his hair. The brisk movements make the impressive cock hanging between his legs bounce just a little on its bed of curls. You’re pretty sure you see it starting to swell.

“I’m so sorry,” you force your lips to say, your feet trying to back you out the door while your eyes don’t seem to be able to peel away from the athletic body on display before you. Tight lines of muscle definition extend up from his growing manhood, drawing the eye up the wide ‘v’ of Ubbe’s developed lats and along the bulging biceps and triceps working that towel through his hair.

He wipes down his face, revealing pale blue eyes that lock onto your own. His knowing smile says everything, but you have no idea what to say or do next.

“Mmm,” he rumbles, “worth it. This towel is still warm.” He spreads it over his chest, still doing nothing to protect his modesty. “You just standing there, or are you gonna give me a rub-down?”

“I….” It doesn’t seem like your mouth, or your feet, or your arms work, and you continue to gape at him like a fish.

“Relax,” Ubbe smiles, finally wrapping that towel around his waist, “I was only joking.” His brows pinch in concern as he rubs at the back of his neck. “Sorry if that was in poor taste.”

Damnit, now your awkwardness has made this awkward for him too. “N-no, it’s… I’m just going to… go, now.” You feel your face twist into something halfway between two different facial expressions, and finally you regain enough control over your muscles to make a break for it.

* * *

Overall, you feel like this arrangement has been going really well. Without any job to head off to, it’s pretty easy to fit all the chores into the free hours you have between classes, study sessions, and sleep. You’re warmed with pride as you move through the apartment each day, wiping things down and tidying up the clutter. And the boys make sure you feel valued for your work, each in their own way. One time last week you actually found Ivar cleaning up after himself, picking up his cereal bowl from the place at the table that used to always be encrusted with old milk spots before you came around. He froze when he noticed you caught him, and very deliberately spilled a few drops from the bowl while staring into your eyes like an arrogant housecat. It was rude, but somehow endearing. Like he couldn’t have you thinking you were starting to change him.

Your groove falls apart during Finals week. Between twelve-page papers and all-night cramming sessions at the library, you don’t even notice the way dishes start piling up in the sink. Ubbe’s discarded linens stay wherever they dropped, and Ivar’s milk splashes congeal once again on the kitchen table. You come home exhausted after your last exam, your brain blocking out the row of empty beer cans and dirty plates cluttering up the coffee table in front of Ubbe where he lays on the couch.

His finals must be done too; the boy is sprawled out shirtless across the cushions, the TV remote nestled in his hand.

“So are you like, graduated now?” you ask him as you plop onto the couch beside him. A little sigh escapes you as your muscles welcome the reprieve from gravity. You think you might sleep for about a week straight now that Finals are finally over.

Ubbe’s smile is lazy and proud. “Yeah, basically. Still have to do that ceremony and shit, but all my classes are done and I’m pretty sure I passed them.”

“Well, congratulations, man.” Your eye follows Ubbe’s left hand, idly scratching at his chest hair. “Victory day means no shirt day, huh?” you tease.

Ubbe’s eyes are locked on the figures moving on the TV screen. “Actually, there’s no clean shirts left.”

He didn’t say it in a mean way, but it still hits you like a brick to the gut. You had been aware you were choosing to let some things go this week, but Ubbe’s laundry had entirely slipped your mind. A wave of anxiety threatens to steal your breath, as your brain tells you this is a pretty major fuck-up. And if you forgot this, what else might have slipped through the cracks? “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” You propel your exhausted body up to your feet. “I’ll go start your laundry right now!”

Ubbe’s hand is around your forearm before you can take a step away from the couch. “Wait.” You turned to him, and he inspects your face carefully. “Don’t get worked up about it, Y/N. I don’t really mind.”

You try to shake him off, pressing your lips together to hide how upset you feel. Tears are starting to prickle hot behind your eyes. “It’s my actual job, Ubbe. I’ll do it now. I can’t believe I forgot.” Your voice cracks somewhere in that last sentence.

Ubbe hears it, and shakes his head with calm authority. “No.” He tugs at your arm. “You deserve a break after this week, just like the rest of us. You’re sitting back down right here with me.”

You force a weak smile, even though the impending tears are threatening to cascade over your cheeks now. You let him pull you down to the couch.

“Stay here, I’m getting you a beer.”

You try to protest that you can get it yourself, but he holds you down onto the seat with a friendly-yet-firm smile before heading into the kitchen himself.

You let yourself cry just a little while he’s not looking. A distant voice from the back of your head is saying that you’re overreacting, but you can’t stop the ugly wave of shame and worry that you’re caught up in now. You fucked up. You had one job. How hard is it to keep house? Every damned human on this planet has chores, it should have been easy to keep up.

You barely notice Ubbe’s return until he presses a cold bottle into your hand and settles his body into the cushion. He sits down so close that his thigh presses into yours, and he starts rubbing your back too. “Hey,” he says softly. “What’s going on.”

“I just don’t want to let you guys down.”

Ubbe’s hand presses a little harder. “Y/N. You do such a great job around here, I promise. I can’t believe how nice you’ve been able to keep everything.”

You bark a bitter laugh, eyeing the garbage strewn across the coffee table in front of you. “Other than this week.”

“Yes, other than this week, the busiest, most stressful week of the term. Cut yourself some slack. You need to let yourself relax, and be human, too. The place doesn’t have to be spotless every time we get home. While I appreciate the aesthetic, this isn’t the 50’s and you’re not our housewife.”

You sip from your beer and then cling to the bottle with both hands, trying to make yourself believe what Ubbe just said. Also trying not to get distracted by the mental image of twirling through the house in a full skirt and kissing Ubbe and Ivar each on the cheek as you send them off to work in some retro domestic fantasy. “I just want to do a good job for you, and hold up my end of the bargain. I don’t want you to think I’m gonna start slacking and not pull my weight.”

Ubbe sighs. He shifts toward you and puts both hands on your shoulders, attempting to loosen them with a little squeezing massage. “I was worried this would happen when Ivar came up with this idea. Don’t treat yourself like you’re our slave. That can’t be fun.”

A half smile tugs at your lips. “Well, sometimes it’s a little fun?”

Ubbe doesn’t say anything to that. You think maybe he just doesn’t get it. He squeezes the tops of your shoulders more firmly, then starts pressing his palms down your back. It’s a few minutes before anyone speaks again. “I think the problem here is that you feel like you live at your job, right? So it’s hard to figure out when it’s ok to just stop, or leave something undone.”

You nod. “Yeah, it’s like every time I’m home, I wonder if you guys think I should be doing something.”

“That’s no way to live.” His hands travel up to your neck, pinching more carefully until he finds just the right spots.

You groan a little and lean back toward him.

“What if… we made up a schedule for you. Set the expectations a little more clear, so you don’t feel like you need to do anything too often, and so you can’t” –he squeezes around the base of your skull in a way that makes your eyes roll into your head—“ _imagine_ that we want more from you than what it says.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you give a really good massage?” you interject. Between the rush of emotion that you’re finally coming down from, and the soothing kneading of his hands, your voice comes out sounding liquid and woozy.

Ubbe chuckles behind you. “Maybe I’ve heard that once or twice.” His hands slide down your back. “But what do you think? Would something like that help you feel like you’re allowed to get time off, too?”

You can’t help focusing on the crumbs scattered over the table in front of you. Your hands still twitch with the urge to give in to the shame and go on a frenzy of manic, exhausted cleaning until everything looks perfect for them again. So you could feel proud once more. So you could feel Good. “Maybe,” you say softly, though your tone is as drawn as the expression on your face.

Ivar busts in the front door, slowing his pace as he takes in your slumped posture on the couch next to his brother. “What’s going on?” he asks sharply.

“Don’t start with her, Ivar, not tonight.” Ubbe’s hands curl over your shoulders, squeezing more briskly. “She’s having a bad day. She’s been pushing herself too hard, don’t you think?”

“It’s Finals, we all have,” Ivar answers, studying your face intently. You wonder if your eyes are still puffy from the tears you let loose a little earlier.

“Yeah, but she’s worried she let us down with the chores this week. It’s really getting to her. Tell her she does a great job keeping house for us, but it’s not necessary to keep things quite so perfect.”

The concern in Ivar’s bright eyes pierces you. “Why did you not tell me you were feeling this way?” he demands.

A bitter laugh barks out of you. “I didn’t really realize I was, until it hit me just now.”

He swings himself a step closer, looking down from his full height and trying to take charge of the situation so similarly to how Ubbe did just a little earlier. You wonder if their father handles things the same way, or if they get it from somewhere else. “Listen to me, Y/N. I love what you have done around here, but you don’t have to drive yourself mad trying to keep everything spotless. You have to live your own life, too.” He glances at Ubbe, and there must be something for him to read on his brother’s face because he takes a breath and keeps going. “I know I take things too far sometimes. I like to tease, and maybe this game wasn’t as fun for you as it was for me.”

You shake your head, worried that your breakdown was about to ruin the very vibe that was making all this worth it to you. “It’s not that—”

Ivar cuts you off. “You have to be honest with me, and tell me when enough’s enough. Can you do that?”

You nod. Ubbe’s palms smooth over your entire back in big, soothing strokes.

“Good.” Ivar looks around the place, then nods like he’s come to a conclusion. “That’s settled, then. No work for you tonight, Y/N. The place was much messier than this before you moved in, and we tolerated that just fine. Let’s get a pizza. And tomorrow, after my last exam, we’ll throw a party. Once the place is thoroughly trashed, we’ll all help clean it up.”

After the pizza’s gone you crawl into bed early, reassured but kind of exhaustedly fuzzy and ready to crash. Ivar comes in before you turn the light out, laptop under one arm. “Scoot over,” he says, then lays on your bed alongside you. “You have to watch this show with me, it’s so dope. I just binged like the entire thing last week.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but you’re sure this is another way he’s trying to make you feel better. And when he lays the laptop over your hips so he can slide himself under the blankets next to you, it’s so easy to pretend that you’re his girlfriend that you almost tear up again. You hold it together because he keeps turning to look at your face every time his favorite parts come up, wanting to see your reactions. You wonder at first if he’s using this to try to make a move on you, but he seems genuinely interested in just sharing his love of this show with you.

You’re enjoying the story, really you are, but sleep starts to drag your eyelids down somewhere into the third episode. At first Ivar nudges you awake with playful bumps of his shoulder when he notices, but eventually he relents and shuts down the computer screen. He tucks the blanket in around you after he slides out from under it. “Sleep well, little one,” he croons, probably half-sarcastically, then turns off your light on his way out.

  


* * *

Ivar takes a long drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a long jet before responding. “That’s a good point, Y/N. I never thought about it that way.” He really is quite cool to hang out with when you’re alone with him. If he’s not showing off and trying to command the attention of a whole room, he actually listens, and can sometimes even sound like he cares.

You take another puff from your own smoke. It’s a warm Tuesday afternoon, one of the first days that feels like summer, and Ubbe hasn’t gotten home from his internship yet. You and Ivar are sitting in the little garden out behind the apartment building, in two of the communal lawn chairs. Earlier, he had scowled when you caught him with a cig on his lips and a lighter in his hands upstairs on the couch. Everyone had agreed last week that the apartment would feel much fresher, and more pleasant, if nobody smoked indoors anymore.

He had scowled, but he had gathered up his shit and made for the door. It was one of the few changes you’d made around the place that directly impacted his behavior, and you still feel a little insecure about how he’ll take it. So you had grabbed two beers and resolved to keep him company out back while he gets used to the new system.

You’re never sure where you stand with Ivar, but today the conversation is flowing so easily that you let your beer get warm in your hand while he chain-smokes and the two of you trade ideas, discovering just how well your perspectives about the world mesh together.

There’s no doubt that the heat of summer is finally here. Only the regular gusting of a cool breeze is saving you, bringing with it the scent of freshly-cut grass and the feeling that nothing matters but right now. Or is it Ivar doing that to your mood? His rare openness and candor, that crooked smile is lighting you up from the inside out, forcing your face to reflect his.

He’s holding your eyes, on the tail end of one of those grins, as he wraps his lips around his bottle and takes a sip. Something shifts in his expression as he swallows the beer. “Y/N,” he says softly, tone going serious. His eyes darken as his lips curl playfully. “You’ve let my beer get warm.”

You crease your brows, confused. “We have been out here a long time, haven’t we.”

He shakes his head, clucking his tongue in exaggerated disappointment but refusing to release your eyes. “You’ve failed me, Y/N. A _good thrall_ would anticipate my every need.”

He’s finally doing it again. A shiver runs through you, the excitement of what kinky things you hope he’s implying whipping against your spine. It pushes a nervous laugh from your throat. “I can’t control how hot it is out here.”

Ivar cocks his head to the side, condescension under his lifting brow. He wiggles his bottle.

“…Should I get you a new one?”

A beatific smile spreads across his features; he seems pleased with your offer. “That would be wise.”

You notice your fingers shaking just a little as you set the butt of your almost-finished cigarette into the ashtray. You like when Ivar makes you feel this way; the whole world narrows down. You peel your sweaty thighs off the cheap lawn chair and rise, almost regretting your choice to wear such skimpy shorts. But surely you’d be dying in the heat out here in long pants. And Ivar seems to like looking at your thighs. You wonder if he’s leering at you now, while you scamper back into the apartment, but you don’t dare to look over your shoulder at him.

Luckily, you had had the foresight to chuck a few of the warm bottles you had brought home today right into the freezer, assuming that Lothbrok appetites were sure to run too quickly through the short supply left in the fridge. The brown glass is frosty and perfect as you take them out now. These will be sure to return you to Ivar’s favor in this silly, contrived, tantalizing game.

When you come back outside, Ivar is gazing across the garden, sucking softly at the last of your cigarette. Has he pulled your chair closer to his, or did you just imagine that part?

He says nothing as you come around to resume your seat; he just watches you, with an intensity that burns hotter than the sun scorching the plants just outside the line of shade you’re sheltering under. You hand Ivar a bottle so cold that it has already started to accumulate moisture in the three seconds it’s been outside.

He takes a sip after you sit, and makes a pleased noise of appreciation. “Much better.”

You get one swallow of frosty beverage down your own throat before Ivar speaks again.

“Now come here.”

You’re already sitting next to him. His wide hand gestures to the space directly in front of his own chair. Your mouth goes dry; you put your bottle down anyway. There is no question but to do what Ivar asks.

His eyes glitter, impossibly large in his handsome face, as he watches you come to your feet and stand before him. You can’t seem to read his intention and it’s hard not to flinch when his arm moves. “You still need a lesson.” His gaze moves to the beer bottle in his hand, and so yours does too, attention catching on the drips of condensation on the glass.

He presses that coldness directly against your thigh, other hand coming to your hip to hold you steady when you inevitably squirm.

“This is how cold I like my drinks. Do you feel that?” He rolls the bottle toward your inner thigh, the contrast with the ambient air shocking each nerve ending in turn.

You suppress a squeal when the icy glass presses between both legs, but you feel the clench of his fingers around your hip and try to stay still for him. The cold almost burns, and your body’s not sure how to handle it if retreat is not an option.

Ivar’s face is lit with a glee that looks more than a little bit demonic. His eyes travel up your body. “On your knees.” His voice remains calm and even.

Arousal blooms, relaxing your joints as you drop to comply. This may look more like bullying than foreplay to anyone else, but this is hotter than any of the shy kisses or sleazy groping that other boys have tried on you in the past. Ivar threads his free hand around the back of your head, under your hair. “You didn’t answer me.” He presses the bottle against the side of your neck, making sure the sudden freeze hits the most sensitive place behind your jaw. “Do you feel how cold that is?”

You force your body not to cringe; your answer rushes out on your overwhelmed exhale. “Yes, Ivar.”

“Do you understand what I expect, when I am drinking beer with you now?” He curls the bottle around toward the back of your neck, biting his lip at whatever change he sees in your face.

“Yes, Ivar.”

“Good.” He slides the bottle toward the front again, the base making contact with the top of your collarbone. “Before you serve me again, you can check the temperature like this” –he presses the bottle into your neck more firmly—“or, here” –he moves it down to the swell of your breast, above the v-neck of your shirt—“or, if you want, like this.” Swinging his grip to catch the neck of the bottle between his fingertips, he leans forward and presses the thickest part of it right between your bare thighs. “Remember how this feels,” he coaches, and you watch his full lips move as he speaks the words so close to your face. “If it’s not this cold next time, I’ll have to give you a more extensive lesson.”

A whimper escapes your throat, and you can’t pretend it’s only from the cold. After so much anticipation, for Ivar to finally be touching you like this, to be treating you in a way that is unmistakably sexual…

He leans back abruptly, removing the frosty bottle from your flesh and taking a smug swig out of it as he settles back into his chair. “Do you understand, Y/N?”

Every cell is vibrating inside your body as you gaze up at the dark look on his face. “Yes, Ivar.” You can’t wait until it’s time to serve Ivar again, so you can press the next bottle to your skin just exactly as he had instructed.

The sliding sound of the back door whooshes. “There you guys are,” Ubbe’s voice rings out, the sound of it shouldering into the space between you.

You rock back reflexively, but look to Ivar for instruction before moving further. He shakes his head with almost-imperceptible disappointment and nods for you to rise before Ubbe can wonder what exactly was going on out here.


	3. maid

It’s time. It’s not like you to take the initiative in these things, but after that little scene in the garden, you just can’t play the waiting game any longer. Ivar and Ubbe have been treating you with nothing but respect, sticking to the terms of your agreement, and all it’s done is make you ache for someone to finally take advantage of you.

Neither of them is going to cross the line unless you give a clearer signal. You’re sure of that now. Everyone has retreated to their own rooms for the evening, and while you’re longing for Ivar to burst into your room and continue the scene he started out in the garden, he’s been acting like nothing happened since Ubbe came home and you can’t bear to just wait for the stars to align again.

But, Ivar gave you the means for signaling you wanted to play, didn’t he? Right after you moved in. The French maid dress still hangs in a position of honor in your closet. You’re gazing at it now, skin still tingling at the memory of Ivar holding your hip while pressing his icy-cold bottle between your thighs. Imagining the weighty gaze he’d give you now, if you walked into his room wearing this. There’s no way things wouldn’t escalate.

Your limbs begin to tremble with anticipation as you strip off your shorts and shirt. In the back of your drawer you find a bra and underwear that match the style of the dress, both in black lace, and your breath seems to be coming a little fast as you change into the lingerie. Your body already feels different as you stride across the room from dresser to closet. You’re floating, sailing, and you pause for just a moment as you catch sight of yourself in your full-length mirror. You look good. You strike a pose like an underwear model, making yourself giggle. Just wait until Ivar gets a load of this.

The maid costume is smooth and silky against your skin. Ivar did not buy something cheap. It’s comfortable; even the stiff taffeta of the petticoat has no scratchy seams, and the constriction of its tight waist feels erotic. The skirt barely reaches the middle of your thighs, but that just means the view is going to be pornographic when you bend over… you step to the mirror to check.

Bending at the waist, imagining you’re leaning down to pick up an errant sock, you take a look at the long line of your legs. The skirt puffs up, framing your ass in white ruffled fluff, exposing the strip of black silky panties between. Perfect.

It’s not like you haven’t thought about doing this earlier. You even had gone so far as to buy matching stockings for the outfit, white thigh-highs that are actually loose enough around the top to stay up without pinching, and a garter belt in case they didn’t.

You weren’t certain about the garter belt, but now that you have the dress on you see that it completes the look. You fumble with all the straps and fasteners until you finally get it set right. You wonder if Ivar has already gone to sleep in all the time it’s taking you to get your plan set up, but you’re committed now. This is happening.

The heels that match the dress are higher than you could comfortably wear on a night out, but perfect for slow, sultry steps around the house. You hear movement through the wall to Ivar’s room, so you know he’s up. A flush of nerves paralyzes you for a moment. Are you really going to do this? How will Ivar react to the sight of you opening his door, dressed like this?

You’re not sure if you can bear to even imagine making eye contact with him. What if he’s annoyed at the intrusion? What if you read everything wrong, and he’s only weirded out by your attempt to roleplay? What if—oh fuck, what if you roll your ankle in these heels, what if you try to say something sultry about “room service” and stumble over your words instead…

But what if his jaw drops open. What if his eyes burn in that way that only Ivar has, what if a wicked smile spreads over his face and he starts giving you orders. Inventive, increasingly-explicit orders. Your body starts to tingle in the good way again.

You move close to the mirror, inspecting your face. Your lips are especially flush and full already, just from the anticipation. You decide you don’t even need more makeup. You feel beautiful, and hope that Ivar will see you the same way.

Your heart pounds when you step to the door, finally ready to make your move. Your plan is to grab a bucket and a rag, step into his room, and declare your intention to clean. Then, just see what happens next. How could he not try something when you’re dressed like this, bent over just inches away.

The click of your doorknob sounds loud as you step out into the hallway. For some reason you’re petrified that Ivar will exit his room at the same time, and catch sight of you before you’ve begun your little act. You slip across the hall to the bathroom to grab the cleaning supplies.

When you come back out into the hallway, Ubbe is there, on his way from the kitchen to his bedroom. He stops short at the sight of you, wide eyes traveling up and down your costumed body. He purrs your name with a note of wonder in his voice.

“Ubbe,” you nod, feeling a little bit awkward, and delightfully exposed, under his gaze.

The bag of chips in his hand makes a loud crinkling sound as he tightens his grip. “Doing some cleaning?”

You look down, spreading out the frilly hem of your skirt a little. “That is what the uniform is for.”

“Is it.” He leans in toward you, body straightening and relaxing both at once.

Ubbe’s eyes are gleaming but it was Ivar’s hands that had worked you up to this moment; Ivar’s devious mind, Ivar’s boldness. You find that you don’t want his handsome older brother to derail you. “Yes, I was just going to go work in Ivar’s bedroom.”

Disappointment definitely touches Ubbe’s eyes. “Oh.”

You can’t resist the urge to tease as you slide past him in the narrow hallway. “Maybe I’ll come do yours next.”

You’re close enough to just about _feel_ the rumble in Ubbe’s chest as he makes an agreeable noise. “Or you could come now.” He takes one backwards step, toward his own room.

It’s tempting. But not as tempting as the cool command you saw in Ivar’s eyes in the garden. Ubbe’s probably capable of ordering you around the way you like, but Ivar’s the one who’s shown you _dominance._ You’re sticking to the original plan. “I’ve been around you guys long enough to know how things work,” you say, shaking your head while you smile. “Ivar always gets what he wants.” You reach beside you for the door handle, knowing Ubbe’s just going to stand there, keep trying, until you make a dramatic exit. So much for pulling your poise together privately before knocking on Ivar’s door.

The latch clicks, and with just a little push the door falls inward. You hope your silhouette looks dramatic enough. You turn away from Ubbe and just like that, you can’t spare him another thought.

Ivar is sitting at his computer desk. The dim lighting casts dramatic shadows on his sharp jaw and hooded eyes. His white undershirt clings to the muscles of his chest. “What was that about?” he asks before turning his head, evidently having heard at least the last part of the conversation outside his door. When he does look up, the last syllable of the question dies on his tongue. He gazes at you, all pretense fading out of his face as his eyes widen and fill with appreciation. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t look you up and down like Ubbe did. He seems to lose all awareness of himself at all, focusing in only on the sight before him.

You step inside with dainty, spike-heeled steps clicking on the wood floor. You shut the door behind you. “Housekeeping,” you smirk. You set the water-filled bucket down beside the wall, bending your knees with a coy little twist to your body. “Just here to do my job.”

Now a masculine sort of smile starts spreading over Ivar’s face, and his eyes drift a little over your form as he recovers himself. “Very good.” He tears his gaze from you just before the silence gets awkward, looking at the mess around the room. “I have been letting things get neglected.”

Something about his words flushes your face as you move to pick up the little piles of discarded pants and socks. You move slowly, bending gracefully, coyly, and fling a few things into the laundry basket before daring to glance over your shoulder to see his reaction.

He’s not even looking at you. His face is turned back to his computer screen. Your heart sinks. Then you hear the music change, to something with a deeper, slow beat. Something much sexier. The next time you glance up at Ivar his eyes are riveted, tearing from the back of your legs to your face as you turn. “Do you like wearing this uniform?” His words are slow, strong, deliberate. Like the way he had talked to you outside.

You have to swallow before you can speak. “Yes, Ivar.”

Satisfaction spreads across his face at your submissive tone. His eyes follow the lines of your little white apron.

“Do… do you like me wearing it?”

His smile is rich, slow, gloating. “Yes. It’s even better than I imagined.”

Warmth spreads through your chest. Ivar was imagining you in this outfit. What else had he been dreaming of? You smooth your hand along your waist, down the short length of the skirt. Hoping to entice him to reach out to you. “It’s so silky, too. Feels wonderful.”

His hand moves a few inches, then he curls his fingers in, retracting it. “The laundry basket is full. Will you take it out?”

You’re not sure if it’s an order or a question; his voice had gone as soft and dreamy as the look on his face. “Of course.”

You turn to the basket, making sure your hips are aimed squarely at Ivar as you bend at the waist to pick it up. You know from your experiment with the mirror just exactly what kind of view he’s getting. Is that a soft groan you hear behind you?

The basket is heavy. It’s a little awkward to manage it on the spike heels you’re rocking, but you get it up in two hands, turning to face him and move toward the door.

Ivar has recovered his poise again, face looking mischievous now. “Wait, one more.” He crosses his arms at the waist and pulls up the hem of his little white tee. The tip of his tongue protruding between full lips, he whips the shirt off over his head in one smooth motion. A few long strands come loose from his hair-tie with it, drifting down to frame his face.

Ivar has the chest of a Greek God, his pale skin so like the marble of those statues, the musculature softly swollen to the classic ideal. The Norse tattoos that wander over his pecs and shoulders hinder the comparison, but only enhance the jaw-dropping effect of him. It’s hard not to ogle, especially at the way those muscles shift under his skin as he holds the t-shirt out to you.

You step toward him, willing your legs not to shake, so he can drop it in the basket. Something in his eyes captivates you and you freeze where you are, right next to him. All your weight is on your right leg, the left crossed behind.

His fingers brush the back of your thigh, just above the lace top of the stockings, and you jump in surprise. You didn’t see his arm move past the wide basket in your arms. “Careful,” he teases. “Don’t drop anything.”

That tongue. It’s sticking out again, locked between his bright little teeth, as Ivar’s fingers ghost along your upper thighs.

“I like that you added this,” he comments, pressing a finger under the garter strap clipped to the back of the stocking. He flicks it, making it snap a little against your butt. You wobble again, because you still haven’t shifted your weight to a steadier stance.

“Thank you, Ivar,” you breathe.

His touch grows bolder, his whole palm, so warm, so strong, sliding along the sensitive skin framed inside the garter line. His fingers contact the lace edge of your cheeky panties and his eyebrows jump. Your body is on fire. You’re not sure if you’ve ever felt this turned on before. For him to finally be touching you, skin to skin like this… And then he smacks you, right on your ass under your fluffy skirt, and he nods his head toward the door. “Alright, you can get back to work now.”

Your head is spinning. There is nothing to do but obey. The basket is heavy in your arms, and he had asked you to take it out. He can’t have meant he wanted you to go down to the communal laundry room shared by every tenant in the building, not right now, dressed like this… But you can at least go put it by the front door for later.

The doorknob is a little awkward to manage with your hands full, and when you cast an embarrassed glance at Ivar you see that he is enjoying watching you struggle. Sexy bastard. You add a little extra flounce to your skirt as you step around the door and into the hallway.

Your heart is pounding in your chest as your heels clack on the wood floor in purposeful strides, past the kitchen to your left and living room to your right. You bend to set the basket near the door. Only as you’re turning back do you realize that Ubbe’s sitting on the couch in the dark room behind you, sprawled comfortable in basketball shorts and clutching a beer bottle by the neck, and he must have gotten almost as good a view up your skirt as Ivar just had.

“You’re killing me in that maid outfit, Y/N,” he complains, voice rumbling thick from the darkness. Once his phone screen turns off, he’s even more shrouded in shadow. “Why don’t you save Ivar’s chores for later. I’ve got something over here you can polish.” You see his teeth flash in the moonlight from the window as he smiles at his own bad joke, but you’re pretty sure he’s not joking. Not if you don’t want him to be. You stare at each other across the ten feet or so that divides you. There’s something in these long looks Ubbe gives; a patient intensity he seems accustomed to holding back. Tonight, it looks much closer to breaking. Ivar is all cool, confident dominance; Ubbe seems like the type to just snap and go crazy on a girl if she teases him too long.

It really makes you want to tease him.

Your fingers play with the lacy bottom of the skirt, pulling it up to expose a little more thigh. You bite your lip and look at Ubbe from under your lashes. “I don’t think Ivar was done with me yet.”

Ubbe waves his hand, as if swatting at a fly. “Come here.” He shifts in his seat and, with a definite swipe of his hand, adjusts himself in his shorts. It’s so crass; but you’re already in sub mode now, the giddy trance of arousal that Ivar started now making you feel compliant and eager to please. For anyone, apparently. You take a few steps toward Ubbe, imagining the way his cock is evidently swelling just at the sight of you.

That thought – more than a thought, a memory really, of what you saw of Ubbe in the bathroom the other day – releases a throbbing between your legs that makes it hard to move. Which is fine, since you can barely decide where you want to go. Your hips want to comply with Ubbe’s request, just about as badly as they want to march you back into Ivar’s waiting hands. “He and I were… kind of in the middle of something. I think.”

Ubbe leans toward you. “But what if I want to get you in the middle of something too.”

This, you did not expect. Ubbe had been so careful, always holding Ivar back, always skirting away from anything that could initiate any sexual pressure…

When you don’t say anything, Ubbe keeps talking. “I’m not reading this wrong, am I? You and Ivar aren’t hooking up yet?” His eyes drop down your body. “But you actually want to play this game. The one we’ve been joking about since the beginning.”

It’s hard to be eloquent when your heart is in your throat. You nod quickly. Then you glance down the hallway, wondering if Ivar thinks you should have come back by now.

Ubbe sees the direction of your gaze. He rumbles your name, low and intimate, to get your attention back. His pale eyes flash as he explains himself clearly. “Now that I know you want to take this arrangement to the next level, I’m not sitting back and letting Ivar be the only one that makes a play.” His sudden grin is confident, charming, like an alpha lion. “And don’t you think the oldest should come first?” He leans back, settling into the couch with an inviting space left open under his arm. “I’ve been paying attention too, Y/N. I know you’re into me. And that you like to be told what to do.” His pale eyes gleam. “You like it a lot. So… come sit next to me.”

This is torture. Your foot moves one step closer, but your chest is tight with the worry that you’ll ruin whatever was getting started with Ivar if you hesitate much longer.

Ubbe’s eyes flit over to the basket of laundry you’ve left by the door. “Or I could carry that basket down to the laundry room for you, if Ivar really needs his clothes done right this minute. I’m sure we could think of something to do while the machine spins.”

A pornographic image consumes your brain, one involving Ubbe bending you over the vibrating appliance and fucking you until the timer goes off. Fuck, tonight is turning into much more than you had bargained for. In your daydreams, the boys were much better about the idea of taking turns.

The sound of crutches against the floor interrupts your writhing thoughts. Ivar’s coming up the hallway, and he’s about to catch you dallying with Ubbe. A chill runs down your spine and you wonder if you’re in trouble.

He hauls himself into the room, following your eyes to turn toward Ubbe on the couch. “Brother,” he greets, falsely warm. “You are still up.”

Ubbe’s chest puffs as he spreads his arms over the back of the couch. “The night is young.” He takes a swig from his bottle and stares at you. “Hard to want to be anywhere else when Y/N is walking around looking like that.”

Ivar steps closer to you. “Yes, the uniform is quite striking, isn’t it.” The possessiveness in his tone makes it clear he’s taking credit.

It’s hard not to shiver visibly at the way Ivar makes you feel when he stands this close, looking down the line of your body at such an abrupt angle that a few locks of hair fall across his cheek. Ubbe may be hot, but Ivar makes your heart stop. The face of a fallen angel. No mere mortal could resist.

He leans on one crutch, lifting his hand toward your chest, just where he’s gazing. You’re perfectly still, silently begging him to touch you again. “It fits her so perfectly. Highlights all of her assets, wouldn’t you agree Ubbe?”

You hear an appreciative grunt from the couch as you watch Ivar’s hovering hand, descending toward your breast.

You think he means to stroke your skin, but his fingers land on the ribbon threaded through the lace that decorates the plunging neckline instead. “I love all the little details.” He tugs at the bow tied in the center of your chest. “It wasn’t cheap, but it was well worth it.”

“A great choice,” Ubbe says around the mouth of his beer bottle. “A kinky dress for a kinky girl.”

Ivar whips his head around to Ubbe, annoyed. You feel your cheeks flush warm to be called out so plainly.

Ubbe doesn’t wait for Ivar to say anything. “You like both of us looking at you, don’t you, kinky girl.” He leans forward, lip curling in dark anticipation. “I bet you want us both to start peeling that thing off you right now.”

Fuck. To not have to choose. That would be heaven.

Ivar’s got other ideas. He sneers at Ubbe. “I doubt our Y/N’s desires are so simple.” He turns those storm cloud eyes back to you. “Anyone can fuck.” The last word is all but a snarl; you can feel the contempt dripping from him at the very idea of vanilla sex. “You’re here for something else.”

He doesn’t elaborate. But the look that passes between you says everything. Ivar’s right; you don’t want an easy lay, a night that blazes hot and fast and means nothing in the morning. You want—

He leans in closer, murmurs the rest of his thought for your ears only. “You want to be taken to your limit. You want to _drown._ ”

A whimper slips out of the thickness in your throat. Ivar’s hand slides around your waist and you feel steadied even as it makes you tremble.

“Walk slowly back to my room,” he instructs, in that same quiet voice. “Do not look at Ubbe. Do not talk to him. When you get to my door, twirl once for me. Show off that short little skirt. Then kneel in the center of my room, and wait for your next instruction.”

You suppress a shiver, another thrill running hot and tight up your core at his words. “Yes, Ivar.”

He pushes a little at your lower back. “Go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for bearing with the long delay between updates! Ivar's muse was not satisfied with any mediocre ideas. So we get this trainwreck instead. I hope you enjoy what he has in store... I no longer have any idea how many more chapters there will be. Possibly quite a few. He'll tell me what he wants as we go.
> 
> The next chapter will be up in a few days!


	4. hold

You focus all your attention on your steps: deliberate, precise clicks of your high heels against the floor. You let your hips sway softly, striving to show both your enjoyment and your obedience, to be sexy while also conveying how seriously you’re taking this. You don’t hear Ivar following you, but you know he’s watching.

Your name bursts out of Ubbe’s throat, an insistent, tantalizing growl. It takes effort to keep your eyes fixed in front of you.

“You may have a turn later,” Ivar decrees, “if you must. If she even wants to.”

Nothing in Ivar’s instructions allows you to respond. It pleases you to know that there is still room to have both; but you are Ivar’s creature right now. So you give Ubbe no reassurance, no sign that you still think you will want to, as you step evenly past the couch and disappear out of his line of sight.

Still, the base of your spine tingles as you hear him leave you with one final, eager growl.

You almost forget the next bit of the instructions. With one foot in through Ivar’s doorway, you catch his dark look from where he’s watching you, and realize there was one more thing you were supposed to do. Leaning your weight back on the foot that’s still in the hallway, your cheeks flush just a little as you go into a twirl, fast enough to make the bottom of the skirt lift. The playful movement frees you a little from the weight of your nervousness, and you flash Ivar a girlish smile before you continue on into his room.

It’s still dark, lit only by his computer screen. The display is showing his music player. The playlist is called “Tied Up In My Closet” and you force yourself not to get distracted by looking at what’s on it. Ivar’s instructions were clear. You take your place in the empty center of the room.

He hadn’t told you which direction to face. You decide to look at his bed, putting your back to the door. You feel like there’s too great a chance you’ll be making an awkward or a stupid face when he walks in, and so you bend forward as you kneel and try to make the most of your curves, creating a sexy silhouette to be viewed from behind.

Your skin prickles when you hear Ivar come in. “Good girl,” he croons at the sight of your compliance. He swings himself close, then settles against one crutch by your side. You don’t move, waiting to be told what he wants next. But when his hand combs through your hair, you can’t help but lift your chin, yearning for more of his touch.

When his fingers stroke across your cheek you can’t help but look up at him. His ocean-blue eyes are positively roiling with dark thoughts. But he doesn’t act on any of them, just examines your face with his gaze and his fingertips.

He draws his thumb across your mouth; you part your lips, eager to spur him on to more. He pulls your bottom lip down, slightly; you consider sucking his thumb but that might be too forward. As crazy as he’s making you feel, you want him to set the pace.

“So tell me, Y/N, what is it that you like?” He pushes your lip back up and releases your face so that he can go sit down on the edge of his bed.

“Um…” you’re not sure what to say, how to start. He beckons you to crawl forward, until you’re kneeling at his feet and he can keep playing with your face and hair as you talk.

“I know that you like following orders,” Ivar begins for you, sliding his hand under your jaw. “And being looked at. Being watched?”

You nod.

He threads his fingers through your hair, just behind your ear. “And how are you with being restrained?”

That one’s easy. “Love it.”

A smile tugs at the side of his full lips, but he seems intent on remaining serious. His fingers tighten their grip against your scalp. “Pain?”

You whimper, and he tugs a little more until you answer. “Yes, some.” He relents his pressure, and turns your face more squarely toward his own. He inclines his head for you to clarify. “I-I’m not sure how much. But I want to try.” Your heart skips a beat as you look up into his eyes, then add two more words. “For you.”

A genuine smile spreads across his cheeks; he’s touched at that little addition. You know at that moment that your greatest goal is to make him look at you like that many times again.

He leans down, and you think he’s going in for a kiss, but he stops himself before he gets that close.

“That is a good start. You know about safewords?”

You nod.

“I think the stoplight system is the easiest to remember, when things are getting intense. ‘Yellow’ if you need a break, if you need me to change something small. Say ‘red light’ if I need to stop completely, and let you out.”

You shiver at the faint imagining of what Ivar might need to ‘let you out’ of.

“Repeat that back to me.”

“Yellow light for a break, red light if I want you to stop.”

“Very good,” Ivar says, leaning back on the bed. “Now you are ready for training.”

You’re still a little disappointed he didn’t kiss you, but excited to see where this is going next. You’ll take this odd tension, the uncertainty and desire that feel hot and cold both at once, over a standard make-out session any day. Ivar wants to _play with you._ You can worry about affection and reassurance later.

“Go to the kitchen, and fill the pitcher with ice and water. Bring it back on that tray that matches it, and one cup.”

You stand to comply.

“Do not talk to Ubbe, if he is still skulking around out there.”

He isn’t. You try to keep your steps as quiet as possible as you enter the kitchen, so he won’t come out looking, and take down the items Ivar asked for from the top of the cabinet. They were part of a pale blue picnic set you had brought home last week, thinking they would fit well with your domestic fantasies, something nice to serve the boys from this summer. Not quite daring to hope that Ivar had been thinking about how nice the sight of you serving him would be, too.

The tray is heavier than you expected when you’re balancing a very full pitcher on top of it. The ice clinks in a pleasant tinkling as you step swiftly back to Ivar’s room. He’s still perched on the side of the bed when you return. He sweeps his arm toward the bedside table. “Set it down there.”

He watches your movements closely as you comply. “Take the pitcher off the tray. Put the cup in the center.” You do so. “A good thrall must be impeccably graceful, wouldn’t you agree?”

You feel your own perfectionistic anxiety bubble up, but in a mostly fun way. You nod.

“Fill the cup with water. No ice.” There’s a trick to pouring a pitcher without spilling ice from it too, isn’t there? You cross your wrist over the top as you pour cold water slowly through the spout, hoping that will work well enough. “All the way to the brim,” Ivar adds as he watches you.

When it’s completely full, you succeed in pulling the pitcher away without even one drop falling out of place.

“Good. Now carry the tray over here. Without spilling.”

You hold your breath as you grip the handles of the tray, lifting it as evenly as you can. Turning and tottering over to Ivar on your high heels is challenge number two, but you end up standing between his knees without mishap. You offer the cup to him.

“A good thrall must be steady, and patient, focused on her task no matter what happens.” He does not take the cup. “Higher.” You bend your elbows, lifting the tray higher than your waist. “There.” He peers at the top of the cup, now even with his eyes. The liquid is trembling, but stays in place. “Do not allow even a single drop to spill,” he instructs. “Turn around.”

The suspense is killing you as you about-face, carefully.

“Back a little closer to me,” Ivar murmurs, coaxing you to center your body before his with light hands on your hips. “Perfect.”

His touch disappears. He says nothing. You are about to speak, and then you feel fingernails raking up the sides of your thighs.

“Hold very, very still.”

Your arms are already aching a little, from the awkward height that you’re holding the tray, but the sensation is easily ignored when Ivar starts to caress you. His hands feel warm and oh so large as he slides them up and down your stockinged legs, tickling at the lace tops and the bare skin of your upper thighs. Pleasure warms your belly as he begins to carry out the promise his touch held earlier, before he sent you out with the laundry basket.

He swipes one hand up between your thighs. You gasp lightly and open your eyes just in time to see the water slosh at the top of the cup. You get a hold of yourself fast, before that little wave turns into a spill. “Careful,” Ivar teases.

You keep your eyes open, fixed on the water at the top of the cup, as the pleasure of Ivar’s hands intensifies. That first touch between your legs had been light, but the next is not, as he runs his fingers along the silk covering your most private areas. After a few more teasing sweeps, his hands grip around both your thighs, just below the buttocks, and pull in opposite directions.

“Spread your legs wider for me.”

You move slower than you want to, mindful of the water swirling at the surface of the cup, held in only by surface tension as you slide your left foot to the side, then your right. The warm hands running up your inner thighs, then playing along the line of your panties, are a bittersweet reward as you must focus on keeping your body rigid and still.

And that was just the prelude. When he cannot disturb your posture with caresses alone, Ivar pinches your bottom – one, two, three quick jabs at increasing intensity. The pain is mild, but meaningful. It spreads a new kind of warmth along your flesh, heightening the sensitivity in your whole lower half. When Ivar resumes his tickles and caresses, it’s even harder to stay standing.

“You are doing very well, pet,” he croons. “I see you need a greater challenge.”

From the corner of your eye you can see him reaching for something on the table, but you dare not turn your head. You hear ice cubes clink inside the pitcher.

When Ivar lifts your skirt again you expect to feel cold, based on that sound, but the next sensation is warm, and wet. Ivar lays his mouth against the back of your thigh and sucks softly, swiping his tongue in a lazy circle. Then the ice cube comes, erasing his touch, sliding up to the crease beneath your buttock and then inward along that line.

You make some kind of gasping, protesting sound, but he only laughs. The ice cube is so cold it hurts; you don’t know how you’ve found the willpower not to move. He doesn’t stop at the edge of your panties, slipping it right underneath, to run it up and down your outer labia. You squeal, and try to recoil, but only with a careful twist. You want to pass the test. You don’t let the water spill.

The ice cube moves toward the front of your body, and Ivar increases the pressure just enough to make sure it sinks between your lips and makes contact with your clit. You hiss air in between your teeth and arch your back. Your arms stay rigid.

He chuckles softly and removes the ice. Everything is tingling now, and cold water is seeping through your folds. Your face is flushed, your breath almost a pant. Ivar’s head appears beside your shoulder; he’s checking the water on the tray.

“Still no spills.” He sounds almost disappointed.

“Do you want me to fail?” you ask. Your voice sounds embarrassingly breathy.

He hums in consideration, letting his cheek brush against your arm. “There would certainly be amusement in that. For me.” He nips at your skin with sharp teeth. “Then I would be able to punish you.”

You ponder that one as a fresh thrill runs through your body. Would the punishment be fun? Would it be worth failing the test just to experience it? But your pride, your obedience, won’t let you.

His hands appear at your elbows. “Lift the tray higher.”

He guides you until it comes up past your face. You shift your grip just a little, so the heels of your hands are under the tray, supporting it further. But now you can’t see if you spill. And Ivar’s hands slide down your lifted arms and close over your breasts. He’s just given himself access to new places to torture you.

His fingertips slide up and down the soft skin above the ribboned neckline of the maid costume. Just once. After that his patience seems to break; he curls his fingers around the layers of satin and pulls them down sharply, exposing you all at once. Rough hands cup your breasts, pinching fingers finding your nipples and wasting no time coaxing them to harden.

You moan, and try not to let your arms wobble. It’s scarier not to be able to see the cup. You wish you could just lay back into Ivar’s lap and succumb to the hot, bright pleasure of his massaging grip, but that’s not what Ivar wants from you. Ivar wants you to pass this test. You are going to do your damnedest to give him what he wants.

He works the pinch of his fingers up slowly, stimulating your nipples just to the point of pain, listening to every change in your gasping breaths. You vocalize your sighs into breathy squeals when his tweaks start to hurt, and he slows but does not stop. “Am I hurting you, thrall?”

You whimper. “Only a little.”

He squeezes again. “Do you like it?”

Your body flares. “Yes.”

“Can you take a little more? For me?”

You moan your assent. For him, yes, you will. He pulls, and the pain becomes stronger. There’s pleasure with it, something that makes you feel like you’re floating, and when Ivar lets out a pleased sigh you float higher.

“So good for me. Keep holding that tray.”

With one final caress over your tingling peaks, Ivar’s hands move down to your hips, lifting your skirt one more time. Your cunt is just aching for contact now, every tug on your nipples having caused an answering bloom between your thighs.

You feel his lips brush across the outside of your hip. Kisses turn open-mouth, then he’s biting and sucking all across your flesh, hands groping places his mouth can’t reach. Happy little growls are rumbling out of his throat, and his teeth press harder. This is wilder than his earlier cold, teasing control. Now he seems eager to literally devour you.

“Ivar!” you squeal, once he’s reached the point where you wonder if he’s drawing blood. You haven’t been able to stop the tray from wobbling as your body tried to escape that onslaught, but you’ve at least managed to keep it up above your head, and keep your feet in place, forcing your body to stay inside his cruel reach.

He laughs after removing his teeth from your flesh. “Show me the tray.”

You lower it down below your eyes, arm muscles screaming in relief. There is definitely a pool of water spreading from the base of the cup. You take a deep breath, whole body trembling, as you turn to present your failure to him.

He clucks his tongue, shaking his head in a teasing, mocking disappointment as he examines the spill. His own composure seems to have fully returned, only a slight reddening in the skin around his mouth to hint at his earlier passion. “I thought I told you to stay still.”

It only takes a little playacting to get a remorseful whimper to come out of your throat. “I tried.”

“You did. But I still have to punish you now. Set the tray down.” His voice is cold steel.

You twist to the table and do so, leaning over so as not to step too far away from Ivar. He takes advantage of your imbalance as soon as you put it down, wrapping strong arms around your waist and throwing you face-down on the bed beside him.

His weight is a welcome crush as he lays his body over yours. He’s made you so desperate for contact; without thinking you arch your back and grind your ass up into the curve of his hip.

“So eager to present yourself to me,” he murmurs in your ear. One hand slides up your side, finds your bare breast that he had left hanging out of the costume, and pinches your nipple hard. “Be careful what you wish for.”

He rolls off your body, but when you try and turn with him he holds you down, pressing your chest back into the mattress.

“Don’t think you can seduce me into letting you out of your punishment.” He strokes the back of your thigh and pushes your fluffy skirt up high.

You let your body relax, sinking into Ivar’s bed. Finally you can enjoy his touch without being distracted by anything else. He caresses both cheeks of your ass, and tugs your panties up, forcing more of the fabric snugly into the cleft between. He turns them into a thong silhouette as he bares as much flesh as he can.

He would have your permission to take them off, but you don’t say that to him. The pressure of the extra fabric stuffed between your cheeks feels more erotic, and probably looks amazing.

His nails graze across your flesh, making it tingle. His fingers come to one of the straps of the garter belt that frame your cheeks, and he snaps it sharply. “Do you have any idea how good you look right now.”

You mumble a little affirmative noise.

“How much better you’ll look when this is all red and purple,” he continues, and then he strikes your tender flesh with an open hand.

You squeak in surprise, but try to get your noises under control when Ivar delivers a few more blows in succession. Nerve endings bloom in protest, but the sensation only enhances the tingling need burning in the space between his strikes.

Ivar smooths his hand over the angry flesh, leaning closer to your face. “Can you take more for me? I want to give you more.”

“Yes,” you groan. The mix of pleasure and pain is amazing, and you want to please him so desperately. To be his good girl.

He strikes again, harder. You whimper, curling your fingers into the blanket beneath you, and force yourself to lie still. His strikes start to fall into a rhythm, which makes it easier for you to breathe in between the soft cries he’s pulling from your lips as each successive slap becomes more intense than the last. He’s distributing his blows across the whole canvas of your ass, but the center of your right cheek starts to go more sore and sensitive anyway. You sob raggedly the next time his hand lands there.

Ivar covers the spot with his warm palm, soothing the sting for a moment. He leans close to your ear. “You know, Ubbe is probably listening to you sing.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth. “I didn’t see him outside.”

“Not in the hallway.” Ivar’s hand travels wider, bringing a flood of relief to every abused nerve ending. “He knows where he can best hear from. Your room used to be his, remember?”

Is Ubbe fucking Lothbrok sitting on your bed right now, listening to you whimper and scream? The thought of it sends a new rush of heat through your core. You wonder if he’s got his hand down his pants, or has just whipped his cock out right there next to Mr. Wiggles.

“Be as loud as you want,” Ivar says, and then starts another round of spanking, cruel and fast.

You let yourself yelp, but after only a minute or two, you lose track of the idea of who might be listening. There is nothing in your mind but Ivar and the pain, your desire to impress him, the buzz of endorphins that have you flying, and the grounding impacts of his flesh against yours. Each breath feels precious, and each groan or scream is a blessed release.

You come to a point where you start to think each impact is the last one you can take, the pain growing too red and immediate, and yet you continue to lie still and take just one more. Just one more. You wonder if you should use your safeword. You wonder if you’re supposed to, if he will just keep going until you stop him, if that’s what he’s waiting for. Or is he just not sated yet, and he’ll stop when he is? You don’t want to let him down before he’s done.

He hits that oversensitive right cheek again and you feel yourself twist away from him, a harsher squeal escaping your lips. Your body has taken over where your mind could not decide. Ivar hums a soothing sound and ceases his onslaught, changing to nice touches, smoothing out the prickling, sore sensations left in his wake.

You don’t want to move. Lying prostrate across his bed, face turned to one side, it’s the best you can do to open your eyes slowly as you feel Ivar lie down beside you. One hot hand remains on your ass; proprietary, satisfied. He sets his face just a few inches away from yours, and gazes into your eyes.

You’re exhausted, and fuzzy. You’re flying high on a cocktail of neurotransmitters you’ve never quite experienced before, and all you want to do is bask in it. He did this to you. He made you feel this delicious sort of way. Your eyes pore over Ivar’s fallen-angel face; he seems content to do the same to you. You can’t even feel self-conscious as you just stare at each other, reveling in what just happened, loathe to say anything more about what it might mean for anything past this moment, right now.

Ivar is the one to break the silence. “Do you want to come?” he asks softly.

You take your time, thinking about how your body feels. The rush you’re coming down from is something more than sexual. You almost don’t feel like it even has to go that way. “I don’t know.”

Ivar’s smile is slow and rich. “I like that answer,” he says thoughtfully.

When he finally breaks eye contact, it’s to sit up and lean over you, reaching for the bedside table. You start to shift out of his way, but he urges you not to move. You hear the drawer opening, then some rummaging sounds.

He comes back to sitting beside you, and when his hand slides over the abused skin of your ass you jump. Even his delicate touch makes you aware of how over-sensitive it is now, how he’s tenderized you.

He tugs on your panties, gently, until all the bunched fabric is pulled out smooth again. The elastic edge across your cheeks feels too tight now; a prickly, stinging line. “Take them off,” you ask.

Ivar makes a bemused sort of sound and does so, lifting the waistband carefully over your red flesh before tugging them down… but they don’t get very far before they hit the barrier of your garter clips. Ivar’s fingertips slide back up between your legs, and you stop worrying about your panties.

With two fingers he strokes your slit, slow and easy. You sigh and arch your back, giving him what room you can.

“Want to try, then?”

How easily the adrenaline and endorphins of the spanking flip over to fresh arousal. Maybe you’re not as tired as you thought. You purr an agreeing sound.

There’s a plastic-y ‘click’ sound, and then Ivar’s fingers disappear for a few moments. The next thing you feel is something cool and slippery pressing between your lower lips.

It’s more solid than fingers. Ivar hums, a deep, masculine sound of approval, and you relax as you feel him push some kind of sex toy into you. It goes in almost embarrassingly easily.

“Don’t take that out.”

Ivar lies back down next to you, eyes lit with mischief.

He reaches up and strokes your cheek. “Feels ok?”

It’s not big enough to be uncomfortable. You wiggle a little, noticing that while something is filling you up deep, you don’t feel anything between your legs. Whatever he put inside you, it’s all the way in there. “Yeah.”

He notices that you sound a little unsure. “You can remove it if there turns out to be a problem.” He takes your hand, drawing it down to feel for yourself. Your fingers hit a silicone circle, the width of a ring, attached to a flexible cord that disappears up inside you. “Ok.”

His blue eyes are still dazzling you. He stares at you a moment longer, your cheeks resting on the same pillow. “It’s late, and I know you’re tired. Why don’t you go tuck yourself in to bed.”

_Why don’t you come tuck me in?_ You want to ask, but you don’t. Ivar will do things Ivar’s way.

You lift your head, and the toy he put inside you buzzes suddenly. You gasp and stop moving.

A smirk pulls at Ivar’s cheek. “What are you waiting for? I gave you your next instruction.”

Not taking your eyes off his face, you lift your head further. Another pulse hits you, and this time you see a muscle in Ivar’s arm jump, his hand clenched around something he’s hiding from you. A smile tugs at your face, while his goes stern. He motions for you to keep moving.

You sit up, slowly. You’re not sure how well motion is going to go around this mysterious toy, but the pleasant stretch of it flexes with you. No more pulses come.

Ivar sits up beside you. He reaches over and pulls the top of your dress back up over your breasts, tucking each one in with care. Then his face is coming close to yours, his eyes fixed finally upon your lips.

His kiss is mostly chaste, soft and sweet but lingering. You part your lips but he doesn’t press the advantage. “Good night, Y/N,” he says softly, pulling back, guiding you to your feet. “Be sure to go straight to bed.”

You’re unsteady on your heels as you cross to the door, head spinning from the sweetness of that kiss. And also because you realize after the first step that you need to pull your panties back on as you go. You move slowly, reluctant to leave. With one hand on the doorknob you turn your face back toward him.

“Although,” Ivar adds, the profile of his face looking sinister in the dim light, “if you find yourself too distracted to sleep…” he buzzes you again, quick and dirty, “please make all the noises you like. I want to know exactly how you’re feeling.”

You shiver at the fresh thrill that runs through you, and do as he asks. You’re not completely sure why he wants to do this in separate rooms, but the mystery and distance are erotic too. He’s going to be in control of you even when you’re back in your own safe little room. You flash him what you hope is a sultry, yet subservient, meaningful little look before you close his door and take the first of the five steps it takes to walk to your own threshold.

Ubbe is there, leaning his forehead on an arm propped up against your doorframe. Your name is soft and urgent on his lips.

Your instructions from Ivar are still clear. That clarity makes you bold, and you step toward the intruding Ubbe with cool confidence, not shying away from the intensity in his gaze. He’s not actually blocking you from getting in your room, and you just walk past him without uttering a word.

“Show me,” he urges, voice guttural, just as you’re passing beneath his arm. He doesn’t move to stop you, but the tone of his voice arrests you just the same.

“What?” you ask, looking up at him through your lashes.

“What he did to you.”

Your face suddenly wants to burn as hot as your ass. You step inside your room and turn away from Ubbe, bending at the waist and flipping your skirt up so that he can see what happened to your bottom in the light filtering in from the hallway.

His fingers ball up in the taffeta above your tailbone, pulling the skirts further out of his way. You still don’t know how bad it looks. Ivar had promised ‘red and purple,’ and surely by now welts would have had time to raise. You wonder if Ubbe likes it. You hear his breath catch. “He’s not done with you,” he observes, and you feel a tug at the silicone cord that must be hanging out the side of your panties.

“Mhmm,” is all you can reply. You straighten up, and Ubbe lets you go. You turn and give the elder Lothbrok a saucy smile. “He told me to go straight to bed.”

Ubbe extends his palm in a “go ahead then” gesture. He makes no move to leave his post in your doorway.

You back up until your legs hit the mattress, smirking at him the whole time. You pull the bedclothes back and sit down, but make no move to cover yourself up. Your bed creaks as you lie back, and a second later the plug inside you bursts to life. You arch your back as it goes on longer and stronger than the pulses Ivar gave you in the other room. It feels so fucking good. You lie back and revel in it. He gives you about a second’s rest, then switches it on again.

You press your legs together, which only intensifies the feeling. It’s maddening to have so much sensation so deep inside, and absolutely nothing to hold on to. You close your eyes tight and grip the pillows at either side of your head.

Ivar switches to a setting with more of a pattern and you moan, a loud, throaty, wanton sound. It’s a little embarrassing, but you want to make sure he knows you like it. This rhythm makes the intensity easier to bear, and pure pleasure ripples through your entire body as you writhe slowly and enjoy every second of it.

A floorboard creaks by your door. Your sound has drawn more than one kind of attention. You open dreamy, lidded eyes to see Ubbe has crossed into your room, far enough to turn on your little desk lamp and give himself better lighting for your unintentional show.

You wonder if you should warn him off. Ivar changes the pattern before you can decide anything, and you throw your head back and groan at the heightened sensation.

“Let me see,” Ubbe urges, too soft for Ivar to hear through the wall.

Eyes still screwed shut, you reach down and pull your skirt up above your waist. Your upper thighs tingle, exposed to Ubbe’s gaze. Ivar hits you with a few rapid pulses that have you lifting your hips clear off the bed, digging your heels into the mattress as you squeal loud enough for your puppetmaster to hear the effect he’s having on you.

Ubbe’s breathing so heavy that you can easily hear the effect you’re having on him. You wonder if that huffing and puffing is going to turn into the pouncing of a big bad wolf, before this is over. “Turn over,” he rumbles at you.

What’s the harm in serving two masters? You flip onto your belly, then dig your knees into the mattress so your bruised, abused hindquarters are fully presented to Ubbe’s eyes as the buzzing of Ivar’s toy deep inside you makes you start keening on every outbreath.

You’re going to come soon. This angle has made the plug press harder against your g-spot. You get louder as the sensation soars, making sure Ivar knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

The buzzing stops. Your wail dies in your throat, and you sag a little. You weren’t close enough to your orgasm that he ruined it, and you wait, hoping desperately that Ivar is just playing with you and not that the battery just died.

You purr and arch your back again when the vibration returns. Just teasing you. The next pattern pulses twice as fast, bringing you back to the brink with loud cries of joy… and again it goes dead, reverting to a hard lump that does nothing but hold you stretched open inside.

This time you let your hips crash back to the bed in frustration. You sneak a peek at Ubbe, who looks amused, seeming to have guessed at your predicament.

The vibration returns, strong and satisfying, and you moan and sigh your heart out for Ivar. He turns it off again. Your last cry turns into a frustrated screech, and you flip onto your back. How long is he going to do this to you?

After three more repeats of this, you open your eyes to see Ubbe standing over you, hand outstretched, descending slowly toward your open legs. Fuck, he’s offering to help you cheat. How are you supposed to resist that?

You bite your lip and nod, certain that you look like a hot mess, desperate and panting after all this edging. Ubbe rests one knee on the bed beside you, and bends his face close to yours as his fingertips run up and down the center of your panties. “When he stops, I’m going to keep going,” Ubbe says into your ear. “But you can’t make any more sounds.”

Ubbe’s fingertip slides under your panties, and when he presses against your clit you try not to scream any louder than Ivar had already been making you. He doesn’t touch you anywhere else, just that one glorious godly finger, circling your button in the contact you’d been going mad for. Your legs are shaking when Ivar lets the vibration die, and you wail desperately as Ubbe keeps going. It’s so fucking good. It’s—

It’s not right. It doesn’t feel right to let Ubbe be the one to make you come, after all of Ivar’s hard work. You push his hand away just as Ivar turns the buzzer on again.

But it’s still too late to resist the temptation to cheat. Ubbe’s finger gets replaced by your own, and you bring yourself to orgasm just before Ivar turns his device off. You let yourself keep wailing as your body convulses around the plug, the pleasure of your release heightened by the satisfaction of being filled as well as the relief after so much teasing. Your voice goes ragged, it sounds worse than a porno, and you can’t even care as the pleasure wrings you out and cascades through every fiber of your being. And just as the crest starts to fade, Ivar turns his toy back on and forces you into a second orgasm, one that hits harder and sharper and has you screaming through your teeth at him.

You’re dizzy and breathless when you finally open your eyes. Ubbe’s staring, standing over the bed. He looks totally overwhelmed, in awe at what he just witnessed. He flashes you a smile that manages to be both grateful and promising, and then soundlessly slips out of your room and back to his own.

It’s all you can do to just lay there, trying to catch your breath, for the next few moments. You don’t even know how much time has passed since you decided to slip on this maid costume and see what would happen. You had not expected this. Ivar had knocked you off-balance right away, and kept you guessing this whole time. And Ubbe….well, Ubbe had been less mysterious. Pretty sure what he wants is fairly simple.

You think about the parting look that Ubbe gave you. Did he expect you to silently follow him to his room? You stir in your sheets, feeling totally spent. You are cheerfully, blissfully exhausted, your body fuzzy buzzing and melting into your bed. The delights to be found in Ubbe’s will have to wait for another day. If it ever turns out to be a good idea to go over there.

You can’t say that you feel totally satisfied right now, though. There’s still a skin hunger, left here all alone as you are. You contemplate going back to Ivar’s room, looking for a cuddle. Does Ivar cuddle?

He hadn’t given you any instructions for afterwards.

Several minutes pass this way, your mind and body slowly coming down from everything. At some point you become aware of the toy still tight between your thighs, and you reach down to remove it. It comes out easily and without discomfort when you push down with your kegels as you tug on the silicone ring. You put it on a tissue on the table next to the bed, then lean on your elbow, mustering the willpower to get up and take off your costume.

Ivar appears at the door. He’s still shirtless, wearing only smooth athletic pants, and his hair is down from its elastic and falling all around his face. There’s a thin plastic bottle of something tucked under his arm. You curl your body into a more becoming angle on the bed, wondering if he’s here to collect, if it’s his turn to come now. That kind of urgency seems lacking in his face, though, as he moves to your bedside and sits down next to you.

“How do you feel?”

You make an agreeable noise, and try to think of the right words as he studies your face expectantly. “Awesome,” you finally say, giving up on anything more artful.

Ivar’s smile is pleased, and warm. “Good.” His hand runs up your bare thigh, moving slowly toward your hip. “Did I hurt you too much?” he asks as his fingers near your bruises.

“No.” But your eyes widen when he touches the soreness on your ass, awakening the nerve endings again.

He pushes your skirt back, gently, and you turn onto your belly to give him better access. He makes a soft noise under his breath as he surveys his work. “Your skin is so hot here,” he marvels. His fingers come to the garter straps. “Let me take care of you.”

He unfastens the clips from your stockings, then finds the fastener of the garter belt at your waist and removes it. He lifts your panties carefully off your tender ass and removes them too, pausing to unbuckle and slip off both your spike heels.

“You did so good for me,” he says when he comes back up to your naked hips, running his hand softly over the damage. “This lotion will help.” He flips the cap of the bottle he came in with, and the sensation is indeed blissful as he smooths the cool cream over your skin. A sweet, green sort of smell wafts up to your nose. “My good girl.”

The lotion does something to your nerve endings, making everything feel pleasantly cooled. You sigh and relax into the bed, the rhythm of Ivar’s hands making your eyes close, the sense of his presence, and his approval, wrapping you up in a safety that goes bone-deep.

His hands move to your back after a time, sliding softly over the satin of the costume before drawing the zipper down. “What do you want to sleep in?” he asks.

You lift up, knowing your face looks dreamy and half-asleep, and smile at Ivar. You were intending to go over to your dresser and get that one nice silky nightgown that you save for “sleepovers,” but damn if it isn’t difficult to move. You get as far as kneeling beside him, his hands still softly on your shoulders, before you get lost in his eyes.

Ivar’s face is never this soft. There’s usually a storm of one kind or another roiling behind that ocean blue; and usually you don’t dare to look too long. But right now, looking at him seems more right than anything in the world. You study the fringe of his eyelashes, the heavy, elegant lines of his brows. When you get to his full, perfect lips, you can’t stop yourself from leaning forward and stealing yourself a kiss.

Ivar’s mouth moves with yours, in languid, nipping motion. It doesn’t turn into the kind of sexual urgency that goes with “making out,” but the soft press and slide of your lips together has a passion of its own, swirling every last bit of energy you have left up into the stratosphere.

Ivar rolls his lips off yours, and speaks into your cheek. “There’s time enough for more later,” he promises. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Your body tingles as you exhale, then move to your dresser and change clothes as gracefully as you can. You think about fresh panties, but your ass would probably be happier staying bare tonight.

You step back to the bed to find that Ivar has already climbed under the covers. He has tucked Mr. Wiggles under his arm, just like he did on the day you moved in. But when you slide in beside him, he tosses the toy toward the foot of the bed in favor of wrapping you in his arms in just the same way. You fall asleep to the soft sound of his breathing, the warm thump of his heartbeat and the trusting little twitches of his own body drifting off to sleep.


End file.
